Kissing Father Christmas (6 page)

T
he rest of my tour around London turned into a comfortable blend of fantasy and reality. It was one of the best evenings of my life.

We walked to Westminster Cathedral, which wasn't far, and then ducked into a nearby pub when it started to rain again. Peter was famished and suggested we share a basket of fish and chips since I was still full from tea and I had promised him that all I'd eat was one bite. In the end I had three bites but that was all I could manage.

From there a taxi took us past Buckingham Palace where Peter explained the importance of the neoclassical style of architecture. He explained that John Nash, the architect who was largely responsible for the design of Buckingham Palace, had influenced those who followed him when they designed the Parliament building after the great fire at the Palace of Westminster in the 1830s.

“You certainly have an impressive knowledge of British history,” I said as the taxi inched past St. James's Park. It was cozy in the back of the cab. The single bench seat was wide enough that we could turn and face each other as we talked.

Peter laughed at my comment. “The truth is I scored terrible marks in history. I only know about the history of the buildings and the architects I'm most interested in. You've heard the extent of my repertoire, I'm afraid.”

“Who is your favorite architect?”

“John Nash. No doubt.”

“He's the one who you said designed Buckingham Palace?”

“Yes. He was largely responsible. There were others, of course. His best design, in my opinion, is the Royal Pavilion at Brighton. He designed something completely different when he pulled off Indo-Saracenic style with great success.”

I kept listening, and Peter kept talking, describing the rounded dome that was influenced by Britain's fascination with India during that time.

“I was seventeen when I first visited Brighton on a school trip. When I saw the Royal Pavilion, I couldn't believe anything like it existed in England. It's magnificent. If you see it at dusk, you'll think you've been transported to another world.”

“So that's your big crush, then, isn't it? Little Miss Royal Pavilion.”

Peter looked surprised and then seemed to catch my joke. “Yes, I suppose it is.”

I looked out the rain-streaked window at the blur of lights and buildings as we drove through a wide intersection.

“I suppose you're scheming right now,” Peter said. “Trying to find a way to ruin the Pavilion for me the way I ruined Big Ben for you.”

“Oh, no. I would never be that cruel to anyone.” I grinned. “I believe in letting people hold on to all the pleasant thoughts they have on any subject that brings them joy. There's too much else in this world that tears our hearts to pieces. We have to hold on to whatever is good and lovely and brings us hope and happiness.”

He grinned.

“Besides,” I added. “I know nothing about the Royal Pavilion, so I'm at a disadvantage in finding a way to diminish the enchantment you feel for her.”

I liked the way Peter was looking at me. I liked the way it was easy to talk with him and the way I felt so comfortable walking with him and sitting beside him. For a moment I reminded myself of all the guard-your-heart declarations I'd made right after he'd explained that our kiss at the wedding was an accident. I thought about how he'd asked at the Tea Cosy if we could have a fresh start as friends and I had agreed.

We're friends. This is how friends spend an evening together. Don't spoil it with unrealistic romantic notions.

“What about you?” Peter asked.

“What about me?”

“What artists do you admire?”

“Beatrix Potter.”

“I've been to her house in the Lake District,” Peter said matter-of-factly.

“You have?”

“It's a museum, run by the National Trust. It's called Hill Top. It's not open until the spring but you should go for a tour.”

“I'd love to do that.”

“You could paint the wildflowers and birds. They have plenty of both in the spring around Windermere Lake.”

I had no difficulty conjuring up a fanciful image of a field of quivering stalks of foxgloves and hollyhocks. I could picture all the pastel, bell-shaped flowers being used as vacation condos for visiting bees and ladybugs. With unguarded enthusiasm, I spilled out my idea for a series of watercolor pictures. “I'd add loads of ladybugs,” I said. “I like drawing ladybugs.”

Peter tilted his head and looked at me with the tenderest grin. “Who are you? You aren't like anyone I've ever known. And I'm not just saying that because you're an American.”

My lips automatically pressed together. I wasn't sure if I'd said too much.

“You're a bit of a fairy tale, aren't you?”

His comment caught me off guard. I didn't know how to answer. The comment seemed to catch him off guard as well.

Peter straightened up and said, “I'll tell you something I don't tell many people.” He glanced at me cautiously and then turned to look out the cab window. “I didn't like Beatrix Potter when I was a child.”

“Then why did you go to her house?”

“I was on a bike race that went through that area. The Fred Whitton Challenge. It's held every year.”

“So you stopped in the middle of a bike race and went on a tour of the home of an artist you never liked.”

“I didn't like her because of one reason.”

“What's that?”

“Peter Rabbit,” he said with a flat expression. “It's a terrible childhood nickname.”

“I love Peter Rabbit! I won a contest for a drawing I did of Peter Rabbit when I was little. But I can see why being called Peter Rabbit would be a negative for you. What about Peter Pan?”

“Peter Pan?” he repeated.

“Did you grow up being called Peter Pan as well?”

“No, I was never called Peter Pan. Not sure why. Maybe because it's not as sissy sounding as Peter Rabbit. What about you?”

I leaned back. “No. I was never called Peter Pan, either. Or Peter Rabbit.”

Peter laughed.

I liked that he thought I was humorous. My style of silliness had rarely met with much of a response at home. Occasionally my father would give me a nod or a meager smile when I said something I thought was witty. My mother never seemed to get my jokes and so most of them went unshared. It was fun to say whatever came to mind when I was with Peter.

“You like to ride bikes a lot, don't you?” My thoughts had returned to the image of him participating in a bike race.

“Yes, I do. I have a route around Carlton Heath that I like to take in the early mornings. It's a gorgeous ride. You'd like it.”

“Then I'll have to go on a gorgeous ride with you sometime.”

Peter pulled back slightly, as if he didn't want his suggestion to sound like an invitation to a date. “What about you?” he said, returning to the previous topic. “What horrible nicknames were you called when you were young?”

I thought a moment. “I was called Anna Banana at school sometimes but I didn't mind because it came from my closest friends.”

“Sounds like you had a pretty docile childhood, then. No school yard bullies.”

“No, no school yard bullies. I had a pretty idyllic childhood.” I went ahead and stated the most accurate description of my life, in case he hadn't guessed it yet. “I've had a pretty sheltered life. What about you?”

“Mine was a mix, I guess you could say. I'm on solid ground now.” He leaned forward and said to the driver, “You can let us off up here. Wherever it's convenient to stop. We're headed to Saint Martin-in-the-Fields. Close to the front portico, if possible.”

We got out on the slippery, wet pavement and made our way through a cluster of people until we were in front of the steps that led to the door of a stately looking church. I knew it wasn't St. Paul's. It wasn't grand enough. This church had pillars that held up a wide portico and an uncomplicated façade. A gloriously lit-up, multitiered steeple rose behind from the back of the church. I climbed the steps with Peter and stopped when he did. There were people everywhere and I could hear carolers in the distance.

“Turn around,” he said. “I thought you'd like to see this.”

We were facing Trafalgar Square. The huge fountain was immersed in white lights and flowing joyously. A large choir was assembled on risers and I caught the words, “The stars are brightly shining; it is the night of our dear Savior's birth.”

Between us and the fountain was the largest Christmas tree I'd ever seen. It towered into the night sky and was lit with yards and yards of vivid lights trailing from the brilliant star on top down to the base.

“Norway sends us her best every year,” Peter said. “It's an ongoing gift of appreciation for our help during World War II.”

I couldn't find any words to comment on the magnificent beauty of the enormous spruce tree and all the lights and color and swarms of people that had gathered. It was all of the best that can happen in a big city at Christmastime. Publicly sung praises to God, hundreds and hundreds of people with smiles on their faces as they gazed at the lights and hummed along with the Christmas carols. It was peace on earth. It was a gathering of goodwill toward men.

I felt overwhelmed with the joy of the moment and slipped my arm through Peter's. I rested my head on his shoulder, but only for a moment. It was my innocent way of saying thank you without formulating any words. Such a gift as this required a heartfelt acknowledgment.

He gave my arm a squeeze and I retracted, slipping my hand back in my pocket. Peter kept looking straight ahead, listening to the carols. I hoped he'd read my message correctly and that my sudden cozy expression hadn't seemed too forward.

A moment later, Peter quietly reached over and pulled my hand from out of my coat pocket. He threaded my arm through his arm once again and slipped my cold hand into his warm coat pocket. His hand clasped mine inside his pocket and he gave me a squeeze. I bravely squeezed back, not sure what this sweet but clearly affectionate gesture was supposed to mean.

Prudence told me to withdraw. Pull back. Don't be so easily wooed. Be on your guard.

I thought and thought and thought some more.

And then I told Prudence she didn't have to worry. I knew what I was doing. Everything was as it should be on a night like this and at a moment like this.

The choir sang out, “O ni-i-ght divine, O-o-o night, when Christ was born. O night divine! O-o night, O night divine.”

I was holding my breath on the powerful final note. As soon as the carol came to a triumphant end, Peter and I let go and freed our hands so that we could join the throng around us and offer a wild applause. Such perfection deserved immediate recognition.

It turned out that was the final song. The crowd dispersed. Peter and I didn't end up navigating back into any sort of naturally occurring hand-holding during the rest of our evening tour of London. I saw that as proof that Prudence didn't need to worry about a thing.

The connection had been for that moment and that moment only. It seemed as if we'd both needed a way to express our shared appreciation for the experience we'd stumbled upon. I couldn't help but wonder, though, if he was thinking what I was thinking.

Holding hands was lovely.

The gesture warmed more than my hand. It warmed my heart.

Peter and I found lots to talk about but I was having difficulty staying awake on our trek home. We traveled first by Tube to the train station and then took a somber train ride to Carlton Heath. We rode in a packed train car filled with shoppers and travelers and generally weary folks.

I leaned my head on the closed window and fell asleep within a few minutes. Jet lag had at last caught up with me. Peter was sitting across from me rather than next to me, due to the crowded conditions. He had to rouse me when we arrived at the station.

“Anna. We're here.”

I looked up, touching the back of my hand to the side of my mouth and hoping I hadn't drooled while I slept.

Peter's rather rusty old-model car was parked at the station. He drove me back to Whitcombe Manor with the heater at full blast. I tried to come around and wake up enough to express to him how much I'd enjoyed the tour and how wonderful it had all been.

“It was great,” he agreed. “I especially liked hearing what you said when you talked in your sleep on the train ride.”

My eyes were instantly opened all the way. It was impossible to read his expression in the darkened car to tell if he was teasing me. He punched in the code to the front gate at Whitcombe Manor and drove to the front entrance.

“What did I say?” I asked cautiously.

Peter turned off the motor and got out. He came around and opened the door for me. The amber lights in the alcove over the front door were on, welcoming me back. The Christmas tree was gleaming in the front window.

He offered me a hand. I got out and he let go.

Adjusting my shopping bags and looping my purse over my shoulder, I faced him and asked again. “What did I say on the train?”

Peter grinned. “I'll never tell.”

He leaned in. Now that I recognized the signs for the proper good-bye kiss procedure, I turned my cheek at the right moment but turned too far. His whisper of a kiss landed just behind my ear.

He paused as if trying to decide if he wanted to try it again with a little more grace.

“I'll see you tomorrow,” he said. “At the play.”

“Oh, yes. The play. I'll see you there.” I felt embarrassed and could tell that my face was starting to turn rosy. “Thanks again.”

“My pleasure.” Peter turned and got in the driver's seat.

I waved as he drove off. Instead of going inside right away, I stared up into the night sky. The rain clouds had cleared and a dozen faithful stars glistened in the inky heavens.